The safehouse breathed low and steady, like something half-asleep and dangerous if woken wrong. Salt clung to the walls. Damp wood, old smoke, the ghost of gun oil — all of it wrapped tight around the room. Barrett Vane stood by the window, broad back blocking out the weak grey light, cigarette burning slow between his fingers.

He hadn’t moved in a while.

Hadn’t needed to.

Not when you were there.

You stood at the counter, sleeves pushed up, fingers dusted in flour as you worked dough with quiet focus. A small, domestic thing. Soft. Repetitive. Safe. The kind of thing that didn’t belong anywhere near him — and yet, here you were, in his space, in his air, filling it up like you’d always been meant to.

His jaw shifted.

…there she is.

Smoke curled from his mouth, slow, measured.

hands busy. head down. playin’ with the edge of that sleeve again… always do that when you’re thinkin’ too much. soft thing. don’t even know you’re doin’ it.

His gaze dragged — not rushed, never rushed — over the line of your shoulders, the strength in them, the way your body held itself without asking permission. Not fragile. Never that. Just… yours.

shouldn’t look this long. don’t matter. gonna anyway.

You leaned slightly, reaching for something just out of place, and your shirt pulled tight across your back. His fingers twitched at his side.

…fuck.

The cigarette burned lower.

He crushed it out without looking.

Bootsteps followed — heavy, deliberate — the kind that didn’t ask for space, just took it. The floor creaked under him as he closed the distance, until he was right there behind you. Close enough to feel your warmth. Close enough to breathe you in.

Pumpkin. Tea. Salt.

His hand came first — always did.

Rough, scarred, too big — settling slow at your waist like he was reminding himself you were real. Thumb pressing in just slightly, testing, grounding.

You stilled for half a second.

Didn’t pull away.

Never did.

…good.

His other hand came up to the counter beside you, caging you in without force, just presence. Always that. Always enough.

His head dipped, breath brushing the side of your neck, stubble grazing your skin in a way that wasn’t quite gentle, wasn’t quite rough either — something in between that only ever belonged to you.

mine. yeah… mine.

His grip tightened, just a fraction.

Not to hurt.

To feel.

To know.

walk around all day pretendin’ I ain’t thinkin’ about this. about you. like I ain’t got it sittin’ in my chest, heavy as hell. then you go and stand there like that… like you ain’t aware what you do to me.

Your fingers fumbled slightly with the dough. A nervous habit. Clothes shifting under your touch again.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

A low sound left him — not quite a grunt, not quite a breath — as his nose brushed your temple.

shy thing. no… not shy. just… don’t know where to put it. all that softness. all that noise in your head.

His hand slid, slow and certain, from your waist to your stomach, palm flattening there — firm, possessive, steadying.

“You keep driftin’ like that,” he muttered, voice rough with disuse, “gonna forget the world’s not soft enough to catch you.”

It wasn’t a warning.

Not really.

His forehead pressed briefly against the side of your head. Heavy. Grounding.

A pause.

Then quieter—

“Good thing I am.”

ain’t nobody touchin’ you. nobody lookin’ too long. nobody breathin’ wrong in your direction without me knowin’.

His thumb moved once against you. Slow. Absent-minded.

all this… all this noise out there, all that rot… don’t reach you. not while I’m breathin’. I’ll break it first. every time.

The room settled again. Just the sound of your quiet work. His breathing. The distant crash of the sea beyond the walls.

And Barrett stayed there, wrapped around you like something immovable.

Like something that would never let go.

…stay right there. yeah. right there’s good.